


Spilt Milk

by wicked_little_thing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, Humour, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wicked_little_thing/pseuds/wicked_little_thing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary really hit it off, but there's something Sherlock's not saying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spilt Milk

**Author's Note:**

> Romance and angst with a dash of drama and pinch of humour.
> 
> (Don't look at me like that.)
> 
> Cross-posted on FFN ([x](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9085998/1/Spilt-Milk))

_Love, you take my breath away..._

\---

There was this one time when Sherlock got the milk.

It should be said, firstly, that Sherlock never gets the milk. Ever. Why would he? His precious time was much better spent doing other things, more _important_ things like shooting walls or sulking or experimenting – aside from the detective work, obviously. He would never allow himself to suffer through such a trivial, meaningless task as actually going to Tesco's and _getting the milk_. Usually, he would shudder just contemplating the mind–numbing _dullness_ of the very idea. The fate of the entire world could rest upon Sherlock completing the task and still he would have sniffed with disdain, rolled his eyes, and rudely declined.

Once John had tried to get Sherlock to get some groceries. You know – just a couple of those random little things that you find yourself in need of sometimes in the middle of the week, before the day you do the weekly shopping. No harm could come from asking, John had thought. He'd eaten his words.

Let's just say it didn't go down well and leave it at that.

Indeed, they have not spoken of it since.

So that meant it was John's job. Sherlock never gets the milk, so the one time he did … Suffice to say John was more than a little confused. Astounded, uncomprehending beyond belief, in need of a shock blanket – take your pick.

John had just returned home from his night shift. He'd scored a date with a pretty nurse that sometimes shared his break, and she'd been eyeing him for many days now. John had taken a leap of faith and come out victorious, which had completely led him to forgetting about buying some milk on the way home like he'd originally planned.

Well if you'd just gotten a yes from a very pretty lady – the first yes in about two months, mind you – your chipper mood and deviant thoughts would probably drive everything else not _terribly_ important from your brain too.

Unless you happened to be Sherlock Holmes. But that's a redundant comparison anyway, because as far as John could tell Sherlock's totally disinterested in romantic relationships and all that entailed. A ten foot, arrogant, emotionally awkward, recalcitrant, utterly mad _asexual_ genius – that's what Sherlock was.

So anyway, John had arrived home from his shift and had gone straight into the kitchen making a beeline for the kettle, because celebratory tea was in order before he got ready for his date. However, upon realising the forgone milk, he sighed in disappointment.

What was he going to celebrate with now?

"There's some in the fridge, John," came a baritone voice from the living room.

John followed it to its source, and raised his eyebrows in query. His flatmate was seated in his armchair with a huge volume in his hands, doing some 'light reading' on mould, probably (John couldn't be bothered reading the book's essay–length title). He was also apparently oblivious to John's confusion.

"Sorry?" John asked, frowning.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You _know_ I hate repeating myself, John. I said, 'there's some in the fridge.'"

It clicked: Sherlock was doing it again – that thing where he read people's minds while expecting everyone else to know that he was doing so. However brilliant it was at times, it was disconcerting and annoying when it was directed at John because it made him feel like he didn't have privacy in his own mind.

John's brain seemed to catch up, then – Sherlock said that there was some in the fridge. John was just thinking about milk so logically that meant –

No.

Really?

John turned and walked up to the fridge, opening it to reveal its usual disarray of body parts, leftovers and …

Milk. Two whole cartons of the stuff.

John stared at them unblinkingly before straightening up slowly.

"There's some poison or something else not made for digestion in those cartons, isn't there?" John asked sceptically, eyes narrowed at the offending milk cartons.

Why? Because the very idea that Sherlock might have bought them for plain old tea was beyond absurd. As said before, such things just did not happen – went against the bloody laws of the universe, really.

But then Sherlock snorted. "Don't be stupid, John. Neither carton is on the experiment shelf. As irritating as your system is, I do adhere to it for the sake of your sanity," he drawled.

Yes, they had separate 'food' and 'experiment' shelves in the fridge, quite out of necessity since John refused to have body parts anywhere near the food. Especially after he had almost eaten a nasty concoction on more than one occasion before he'd insisted on the system.

Anyway, John was seriously confused. It would have made more sense for Sherlock to have forgotten about the system and just left them anywhere there was space in the fridge.

But buying milk and not experimenting with it _and_ suggesting John use it to make tea?

This was just not normal Sherlock behaviour.

Sherlock materialized by the threshold of the kitchen. He leant again the doorway, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at John.

"Problem?" he rumbled.

John gaped at him, "You? Milk? Really?"

Sherlock assessed him before saying, "It's just milk, John. Not a big deal, I've heard."

"It is to you," John blurted tactlessly, "You hate regular human tasks."

Sherlock pulled out his phone, "I'm no stranger to them."

John shook his head slowly, "And here I was thinking you'd never set a foot in a supermarket in your entire life."

Sherlock continued fiddling with his phone, not looking at his still–puzzled flatmate.

"So why _did_ you buy some then?" John wondered, considering the detective.

Sherlock gave a half–hearted shrug before saying, "I knew you would forget to get some, but would want tea later today."

John was hesitant, "What, no ulterior motive?"

Sherlock raised his curly–haired head at that. Eyes blazing defiantly, he said icily, "A simple 'thank you' would suffice. If I'd known you would be this ungrateful, I –"

"Thank you," John smiled at him, interrupting before Sherlock could work himself up into a proper sulk.

Sherlock rapidly back-pedalled, clearing his throat, "Yes, good. You're welcome."

John didn't really know what to make of the gesture yet, but he found his heart warming slightly at the selfless, if small, thing Sherlock had done for him. His heart swelled with fondness as he watched the detective squirm as if John's feelings were a sticky residue that clung unpleasantly to his skin. _Yep, that's Sherlock through and through_ , John thought light–heartedly.

They stared at each other for a moment, both wondering what exactly was going on in the other's head. Ice eyes drove into deep sea ones drove into ice ones. It was like a feedback loop, like something was growing, though neither could put their finger on what exactly. The world seemed absolutely still, as if it were holding its breath.

Then John's phone beeped, halting something before it had begun and kick–starting time into its regular progression.

John pulled it out and checked the small screen. It was Mary: _What time am I picking you up?_

John smiled with amusement before replying: _How about we do things a little differently? What's your address?_

After John had made himself some tea, he and his date texted for some time talking about silly nothings. It was entertaining and quite lovely. John really thought that the two of them had hit it off.

Come time to leave, John had dressed up in casual yet smart jeans and jumper; all thoughts about Sherlock and the milk and that weird little moment afterwards had already receded behind the fog of half–formed ideas.

–––

John was right; they matched each other perfectly.

They were in a classy Italian restaurant – not over–priced, but just right for a nice first date. The low lighting and the candle in the middle of the table set the mood flawlessly, just as the dark red velvet curtains and embellished wooden furniture did. The whole scene was like something out of romance novel.

John was so light–headed from laughing and from all the wine he'd had that he was constantly reminding himself that this was in fact their first date and he should wait until at least the third to propose.

But God was he tempted.

Her hair was the lightest blonde – the soft strands flowed gently down just past her shoulders. Her eyes were a vibrant, stunning light blue, like diamonds. Her skin was smooth and pale – but not overly so – and her lips were an enticing, lush pink. John so wanted to kiss them.

In truth, she was perfect.

"It's still a bit of a mystery to me how someone like you ended up a nurse in a little clinic," John said, scooping up a bit of his lemon tart.

Mary's eyes sparkled mischievously, "Just what exactly are you implying, good sir?"

John startled, "I didn't mean anything –"

But Mary just laughed lightly, a pretty tinkling sound that John was already greedy for.

"I'm not just a pretty face you know. Got all the good genes, as my father used to say," Mary smiled cheekily, "I'm doing a bit of field work for my degree."

John raised his eyebrows, impressed. "I'm impressed," he told her.

Mary smiled again, twirling her hair in her hand, "Yes, I know."

John chuckled into his dessert. He liked her. He really, really did.

–––

The date had gone well of course, but Mary had taken up her second shift of the day, covering for someone else, so she was unavailable for the rest of the night.

Much to John's disappointment, you understand.

He hadn't even gotten a goodnight kiss – the vivacious little thing had dodged away, giggling. The utter gall of her.

John entered 221B, humming a random little tune softly under his breath. He glanced around, but his flatmate was nowhere in sight. The lights were out, but that didn't mean anything when you lived with a whimsical man–child.

The wine didn't seem to be wearing off any time soon, so John went to go make himself another cup of tea to calm the buzzing in his head. He didn't feel like sleeping just yet, and he was too jumpy to read or watch some telly.

As if on cue, Sherlock deigned to grace John with his presence that very minute. The sound of the front door slammed in announcement.

"Where have you been?" John asked when Sherlock appeared at the doorway.

"Case. Lestrade phoned about a particularly vicious triple–murder he wanted to 'wrap up quickly'. They always want to wrap the vicious ones up quickly, don't even pause to consider if they have the true culprit. They're a pitiful bunch of buffoons at the best of times but _at least_ they have the ounce of intelligence required to call me in," Sherlock ranted as he whirled his way across the room and logged onto John's computer.

John sighed, letting the detective get away with it for now.

"Right. Need any help?" John asked hopefully.

Sherlock looked at him for the first time since entering the flat. His eyes went deductive grey before his face assumed a carefully blank look. John braced himself.

"Your date went well I take it," he started.

"Yes," John said carefully, taking a sip of tea.

Sherlock continued coolly, "You had a bit too much wine but think it will be worth the hangover. She makes you laugh, and she's beautiful. You had a great time. You think she's perfect."

John exhaled, the worst of it over. For some reason, though, Sherlock's utterly blasé expression made him tense and uneasy. He smiled a bit blandly before saying, "Spot on."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow mockingly before turning back to the laptop.

John shifted uncomfortably. Trust Sherlock to be one to make him feel like a shit for having a great first date. It didn't even make any sense, but feel that way he did.

"Sherlock."

"Mm," came the non–answer.

The tapping of keys filled the flat.

John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock off, but caught himself. This was _Sherlock_ he was talking to, after all. Of course the man wouldn't have any concept of moral support or 'being happy for a friend', especially seeing as he was on a case.

"Never mind," John muttered to himself.

–––

Lying in bed trying to fall asleep that night was proving to be a chore.

Sherlock had seemed to be researching, mostly, and it had not looked like he was in real need of a sounding board just yet. So there was no real reason to wait up with him and if they were going to be running around soon, John figured he might as well get some rest while he had the chance.

And yet for some reason, he couldn't manage to fall asleep.

He'd just been on a wonderful date, the buzz from the wine had dimmed to a pleasant hum, and he was feeling quite drowsy. But his thoughts were spinning in circles because he was trying to figure out what was causing this _nausea_ , this knot his guts had become.

Something at the back of his mind was itching for his attention, but he had no idea _what_.

John tossed and turned in his sheets, staring into the darkness, just _thinking_. What had his subconsciousness so irked?

It had to be something to do with Sherlock. That's when the feeling had started, he was sure – right after the detective had deduced how well his date had gone, John had felt uneasy.

But why?

Was it because Sherlock hadn't really seemed to care? No, that was normal Sherlock behaviour – he genuinely didn't care about how well John's dates went, and John was used to that. It was hardly the first time John's time with a member of the fairer sex had been deduced. Actually, the deductions were usually a lot more scornful and vindictive.

So what was it then?

Then it clicked.

Sherlock _did_ care. There was always something bad to be said about John's girlfriends and dates. They were too boring, or too clingy, or whiny, or just plain irritating, and Sherlock just seemed to know that John would see that eventually and it wouldn't work out.

Either that, or Sherlock's eccentricities and constant summoning of John would drive them away.

But this time, there wasn't anything to be said; the date had gone really, really well, and if not for Mary's late–night shift, John hadn't the faintest doubt that they would be at hers right now.

So Sherlock had been much more subdued in his proclamations.

But what did that _mean_?

John turned again, frowning up at the ceiling. He sighed. Seemed he wasn't going to be getting some sleep tonight after all.

–––

He made his way down to the living room, hunting for his jacket. Naturally Sherlock was still up, those sharp, ice storm eyes scanning the screen much faster than John was able to read.

John didn't bother announcing his departure – Sherlock was clearly into it and he probably wouldn't register it anyway – but he made sure to grab his phone in case Sherlock decided to text him.

–––

John didn't know what was going on with Sherlock, but he knew he was missing something obvious. Something important, too.

He'd decided to take a long walk while mulling it over, seeing as walking always made him feel calmer and more in control of his situation and thoughts. In fact, walking was positively cathartic.

It was quite late, but the city was still bustling with activity. Shops were still open, taxis and cars still trundled along the streets, pedestrians still wandered the pathways.

John's thoughts were running in circles. Sherlock wasn't making any sense, and his own reaction to that wasn't making sense either. Why should he care that Sherlock wasn't egging him on and clapping him on the back for getting such a catch of a girl? He'd never cared before. Why was this time any different? Because it was Mary, because she was truly wonderful? John was well and truly stuck.

John was waiting to cross the road, when a baritone voice spoke right into his ear and cut through his tangle of thoughts. John just about jumped out of his skin.

"It was the maid's lover, not the maid."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, "Jesus. Don't _do_ that."

Sherlock turned to look at him. His turned–up coat collar and high cheekbones matched his devastatingly perceptive eyes and John really hated that although he looked like that and could score _any_ girl (or guy) he wanted, he never put it to good use. Unless it was for a case or charming Molly from the morgue, but really. It just wasn't fair. He looked especially handsome on a night like this, with the streetlights casting shadows in all the right places and lighting up his eyes so that they almost looked golden…

John stopped that train of thoughts before it left the station.

"Don't startle you, or don't follow you?" Sherlock asked for clarification.

"The first," John mumbled, trying to shake some sense back into his obviously wine–addled–and–sleep–deprived brain.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured, eyes sliding over John and back to the road.

John was just about to ask what exactly was interesting about that, but let it go as the light changed. They crossed the street together, John lengthening his stride slightly.

"Why are you here, anyway?" John asked mildly.

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, "I solved the case."

John rolled his eyes, "Right. Sorry for asking."

They walked for some time, enjoying the companionable silence. It was nice just taking a slow walk together and not rushing off to some crime scene or pursing some criminal.

By now they'd reached a quieter street, but the silence, as lovely as it was, was never meant to last.

"Do you think you'll move in with her?" Sherlock asked abruptly, not turning to meet John's eyes.

"What?" John halted stride. He wasn't sure he'd heard right.

Sherlock paused a few steps ahead of him, turning round ninety degrees so he wasn't actually facing John.

"I won't have her living in 221B, so you'll have to move in with her if you want to live together," Sherlock said tonelessly, as if he was reciting someone else's lines.

John was speechless.

"We'll also have to figure out a system, if you still wish to accompany me on cases," Sherlock continued in that dull voice, "and as for the wedding –"

John had had enough, "No! Sherlock, seriously, shut up will you? It was _one date_!"

Sherlock turned his laser eyes on him, "Yes, and you were thinking of proposing to her."

Right, so maybe that mind–reading trick had major faults after all.

"Sherlock," John started, trying to keep his cool, "Isn't it a bit soon to be thinking about things like this?"

Sherlock regarded him as he would a cadaver, "No. You can tell how a relationship will turn out by assessing the outcome of the first date. Looking at all the data, I deduce you'll be engaged within six months."

John was afraid his eyes would actually bug out of his head.

"You can't know that," John said feebly.

"I can," Sherlock said haughtily, exuding confidence and… something else.

John squinted up at his friend. There it was again, that something–not–right. It was absolutely infuriating, _completely maddening_ , that John just couldn't put his finger on it!

"Sherlock, is there something you want to tell me?" John asked carefully.

His friend jumped at that, but tried to hide it. He met John's steady gaze, "No, why would there be?"

In a blinding moment of clarity, everything in John's head finally fell into place.

"You don't want me dating Mary, do you?" John was so sure about it that it didn't even sound like a question.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste, "Who you choose to dally with in your free time is of no concern to me, John."

John smiled slowly, "No, that's just it. It is of your concern because … you actually _care_."

Sherlock's features hardened into something impenetrable, but that only confirmed John's suspicions.

"You're being ridiculous. Why should I care?" Sherlock hissed at him, eyes flashing.

John thought about that for a second. Honestly, he had nothing to go on.

And then John thought once again about the milk. Those two innocuous cartons of milk, and other little things that Sherlock sometimes did for him that would seem normal and inconsequential to everyone else but were _way_ out of character for him and John's thoughts were racing and joining the dots and he was thinking what if this was what it felt like to have Sherlock's mind?

John halted in his tracks.

No. No way. It couldn't be. Could it?

But… there was no other explanation.

And someone had once told him that when you eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth.

John drew in a deep breath.

"Because you're in love with me," John said in that steely, unnervingly steady voice.

 _God, if I'm wrong about this…_ John cringed internally.

But Sherlock's reaction was nothing if not telling: he blanched like John had physically struck him.

 _Bingo_.

"That's preposterous!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John crossed his arms and tilted his head, trying to hide his amusement, "In denial about it, too."

He saw something proud snap in Sherlock at that. There was something in Sherlock's eyes – something distressed and horrible – that made John feel like a right dick.

"So glad to be a source of entertainment to you, _Doctor_." Sherlock snapped snidely.

He whirled around and began briskly striding away, leaving John feeling undeniably like a turd. _Damn it. Fix this, Watson._ He drew in a deep breath and ran after his friend.

John overtook Sherlock and turning so that he was walking backwards, held out his hands, placating. "Sherlock, wait. Just – stop a second!"

Sherlock stopped, thankfully. He stared downwards and off to the side, but he was like a blank slate – John just couldn't get a read on him. John's stomach swooped uncomfortably at the hollow look in his friend's eyes. He swallowed hard. _Shit_.

Sherlock seemed to trudge back into reality, but it looked as if he was wading through three feet of mud to do so.

Then he spoke as if he were doing so to a stranger, "Give me two days' notice before you move out so I can make the necessary arrangements."

John could have hit the man, seriously.

"Sherlock, would you just bloody shut up and _listen_ for a minute?" John burst out exasperatedly. He continued with little pause, "Look, I don't know how long you've had these feelings for me, but you're an absolute idiot for hiding them from me. God knows where you got the idea that hiding them was a good thing in the first place. Jesus, you can be such a child sometimes. I bet you've deleted anything related to how to deal with situations like this, am I right? Come on Sherlock, even if I didn't reciprocate your feelings, there would be no plausible reason for me to bloody move out because we'd have sorted it out together and –"

Sherlock's head had shot up, and now he interrupted, "If?"

"What?" John blinked up at him confusedly.

"'If', John, you said 'even if I didn't reciprocate'," Sherlock repeated impatiently, but the spark was back, and gradually growing stronger.

John shook his head in disbelief. He said softly, "Well, to paraphrase, _obviously_. It took me ages to realise it, but I've always loved you, you great git. And then I grew used to the idea that you would never love me back, no matter how much I might have wanted you to. It was just the way you were and I didn't hold it against you, because like I'd said, it was all fine."

Sherlock looked about as shell–shocked as John had ever seen him. His mouth had dropped open and everything.

"But … what about your last date? And all of your other girlfriends?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John shook his head in wry amusement, "Half–hearted attempts to get over my feelings for you."

Sherlock's forehead scrunched up slightly in confusion, "But you were thinking of marrying the last one."

John sighed, "I don't know if you've noticed but I was drunk and haven't had a date in two months, never mind a good one. Not to mention that she seemed promising – I honestly thought it would have been easy to fall for her and forget about my feelings for you."

John felt like he'd kicked a puppy (twice) with the look Sherlock had on his face. Before he could say anything in the form of an apology though, Sherlock quickly intercepted, "What would you have done if you had 'gotten over' your feelings for me?"

"I'd have dealt with it when I came to it," John shrugged.

Sherlock squinted his eyes at him, "So all those times you claimed you weren't gay …?"

John smirked a little, "I'm bi."

Sherlock stared at him, "Ah. I see."

John snickered at Sherlock's sour expression, but he didn't miss the hint of amusement in his friend's eyes.

And just like that, as easy as slipping under a favourite quilt in your own bed, that feeling was back. The one where the whole universe was still and it was just the two of them and nobody else mattered – just as it should always be. John knew that this wasn't going to be easy, or anything resembling perfect. He knew there would be plenty of arguments and black moods and experiments all over the flat, but there would also be chases in the moonlight and kisses and _Sherlock_.

It would be that way for the rest of their lives, and John couldn't have wished for anything better.

John took a step closer, "So, what now?"

Sherlock's eyes took on a hint of impish glee. John laughed at his cat–got–the–cream grin as Sherlock also took a step forward.

"Well I'm not quite sure of the proper etiquette, so if you could provide a demonstration of sorts I'd be much obliged," Sherlock said coyly.

John grinned with delight, right up until the implications of that set it. "Wait, you're not saying that you're –"

Sherlock's face lost all of its buoyancy and he sighed heavily, "No, John. I may be a stranger to emotions and relationships, but I'm not to sex."

"Right," John said, "Sorry."

John stood there awkwardly, shuffling his feet while Sherlock picked at him with his eyes.

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock huffed with no small amount of impatience.

So quickly John barely even registered what was happening, Sherlock closed the distance between them, grabbed John's head in his hands and proceeded with kissing the living daylights out of him.

After the initial assault, John was holding Sherlock close to him and giving just as good as he was getting. John's stomach flipped as Sherlock explored his mouth with the focussed intensity he usually reserved for crime scenes. It was intoxicating, and soon enough both of them had to break apart to breathe.

Sherlock rested his forehead on John's, closing his eyes. They stayed that way for a long, beautiful moment, and John took the opportunity to just take in Sherlock's flushed cheeks and kiss–reddened lips. He brushed Sherlock's dark curls out of his face, weaving his hands through them. It felt wonderful, all of it. So wonderful, in fact, that John felt like electricity was coursing through his veins and warming his heart and short–circuiting his brain.

It was exhilarating, and so much better than he'd imagined it would feel.

"John?" Sherlock murmured voice low and cracking slightly.

John heart leapt into his throat, "Yeah?"

"Don't go on any more dates?" and with that, Sherlock opened his eyes.

John inhaled sharply at the emotions swimming behind his detective's opalescent eyes. He honestly felt like he could lose himself if he stared into them for too long, but that wasn't going to stop him.

"Not even with you?" John joked back weakly.

Sherlock chuckled at that, "I think I can make an exception."

John grinned before tugging him down into another kiss – this one infinitely more tender and sweet. John's knees felt like they were going to give out. He could have wept at the beauty of it all.

"You're an idiot, but I love you anyway," John whispered against Sherlock's lips when their kisses had slowed.

Sherlock responded by backing John into the wall of the nearest building and continuing his ministrations.

"Likewise, John."


End file.
